


O How I Miss Thee

by the_authors_exploits



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed III - Fandom
Genre: Drama, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor returns to the Homestead, but he's not himself and his friends worry about him</p>
            </blockquote>





	O How I Miss Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Realized I've been misspelling Myriam's name, but I like it with a U so Im keeping it  
> Next, I honestly did the best I could in researching Mohawk mourning rituals, but I also added in a few things I have done when I've lost someone (burning incense/a candle, for instance). If I have offended in any way, please inform me so I can correct it.

On any normal day that Connor returns to the Homestead after one of his lengthy away missions, the villagers would welcome him with open arms and wide smiles; they were always happy to have their kind lord, despite his insistence otherwise, return and were eager to share the goings on with him. On any normal day, Connor would nearly as eagerly—as eagerly as the young stoic man could seem—accept their words and worries, and offer a vast amount of knowledge and aid for them.

However, upon his arrival, bloodied and shaken, atop his skittish mare, he barely spared his friends a glance; they took the hint from his vacant eyes, the dirtied clothes, and the stiff way he moved with the horse. They let him ride through the town and up to the manor, only shooting him curious and worried glances instead of voicing their concern.

Norris spoke to Corrine, over a tankard of ale. “Do you think he’s been hurt? That was a lot of blood on him.”

Corrine swiped a cup with a dirty dishrag, keeping her pinched gaze narrowed on the bar; Oliver answered. “Dunno; he seemed fine. But…that t’was a lot of blood…”

They expected him to show the following day; he was always interested in ensuring everyone’s safety and comfort, integrating with them as soon as possible upon his return. But when he didn’t show then, either, Myrium pestered Ellen for any insight.

“I cannot say, dear,” she was tucking a piece of fabric around her mannequin, a pin set between her teeth. “I’ve never seen him like that before.”

Yes, he had returned disheveled before, but he was always receptive to them, always a tender presence in their little town, always collected and calm; not distant as he had been, when he had trotted down the center lane of the town, shoulders drawn back and head held high, as if to showcase the damage to him. It was eerie, a frightening image; Myrium worried her lip and turned away from Ellen, deciding to return to her hunting grounds.

So the days went, with the town’s people waiting for the manor door to open and Connor to exit to the sun; yet, it stayed firmly shut without so much a glimpse. Not even Achilles, who was a rare occurrence as it was, showed his face.

On the sixth day, Maria came bursting into the inn, breathless and with ruddy cheeks. “I saw him!” She cried, gasping. “I saw Mister Connor!”

A rather large lot of sailors from the docks and some of the other villagers, much larger than most other mornings, immediately surrounded her.

“Where did you see him?”

“Was he alright?”

“Didja speak to him, lass?”

“What was he doing?”

With no space to talk, Maria shot wideyed glances about the crowd; eventually, Corrine caught on, and she loudly shushed everyone.

“Let the girl speak!” She yelled above the din; turning back to the young girl, she said, “Tell us what happened, deary…”

Maria took a breath. “I was chasing a rabbit, and it ran up to the manor; I didn’t notice ‘til I was super close, and then I saw him! He was at the edge of the woods, kneeling, and he was talking but I couldn’t understand him—he was speaking something foreign, and there was a belt of beads in his lap and he was adding patterns to it as he went.” She leaned in closer, as if speaking a conspiracy, and the gatherers followed suit. “I think he was crying.”

There was murmuring, dissent among the gatherers; some split, to carry the news to others, and Oliver shooed Maria out the door.

“Go tell your mama; she’s gonn’ want to know this.”

So the young girl did, and Ellen relayed it to Prudence, who was able to track down Norris at his mine and tell him; so the news spread, murmurs in gatherings about the place; Myrium returned from her hunting in the early afternoon, and immediately knew something had happened. There were the murmurs, the hesitant glances towards the manor, the way the daily activities seemed to be at a standstill… She dropped her furs in a bush near the road to town and made her way to the hub of the Homestead—the inn.

The crowds were even thicker there, and while Corrine and Oliver seemed to be enjoying the extra coin they were also as distracted as everyone else; Myrium ordered a cool cider and sipped it, surveying her surroundings.

“So what’s happened?” she questioned her husband as he pushed his way through the crowd to her side.

“Maria spotted Connor at the edge of the woods.”

Myrium perked at that. “So he’s alright then?”

When Norris bit his lip and refused eye contact, something cold gripped her heart; was Connor truly injured?

“Norris; is Connor alright?”

“It’s just… Maria said _la garcon_ was speaking Native and stringing beads together.”

Myrium started; she had done some trading with the more friendly natives, and had been privy to some of their customs as a result. “Beads?” That could be for a variety of reasons; but at the edge of the woods? And muttering? That shortened the possibilities.

“ _Oui_ , beads.”

Myrium pursed her lips and chugged down her cider, ignoring the sting in her throat and the water in her eyes; she set the cup down, picked up her gun from where it had been leaning against the counter, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going, _mon cheri_?”

“I’ll be home soon; don’t worry.”

Norris let her go; she shoved her way through the crowds, to the road and pass the shrubbery where her furs were being stored. She had eyes for the manor; she wanted answers. She wanted to confirm her suspicions, to ensure her friend would be alright, and not even Achilles’ cold demeanor would deter her. She reached the white door in no time and banged upon it with a closed fist, loudly, and relaxed under the shade of the awning.

There was the sound of movement before the elderly face of Achilles opened the door, squinting out at his unannounced visitor. “May I help you?”

“I wish to speak to Connor.” Her throat tickled; there was a heavy smog in the home, and a strange scent wafting out.

“I’m afraid he is…unavailable at the moment.” And Achilles went to shut the door. “Come back another time, perhaps.”

“Wait!” She braced a hand against the wood to stop him. “Is he…is he alright?” She recognized the smell from the house now; candles and incense were burning somewhere. “We haven’t seen him in a while and we’ve all been rather worried…”

In an instant, the man before her looked his age, if not older, worn and heavy; she remembered his illness that brought Lyle around on occasion. If what was going on really was happening, she hoped—for Connor’s sake—that Achilles would hold on a bit longer. “As am I,” he sighed, referring to the town’s people’s worry. “As am I.”

And with that, the door shut gently and Myrium listened to his fading footsteps on the other side.

After that day, Connor was not seen again for another five; Achilles had gone around the village on the tenth day, hobbling with his cane as he went, glaring at the sun when the tree branches moved the shade away, and requested their presence at the manor for supper the following evening. Each one in turn accepted the invitation, whether through thoughts of their friend or curiosity at being allowed in the manor.

“Good,” the old man had nodded. “Arrive promptly, please, and in your best dress.” He instructed each in turn, and each assured him they would. Once that had been complete, he had sent a few errand boys off to the city on urgent business, and Ellen caught sight of some strange requests on the list—ingredients for fancy plates and tasty morsels.

So the night arrived, and Myrium, in a dress made by Ellen a few months back for such occasions, was relieved to see the manor had been aired; the windows were thrown wide, with puffs still clearly seen up the stairs and on the second floor. Still, the strong smell of burning wood and spices lingered in the surrounding air and Prudence sent Myrium a wide-eyed, worried glance.

Achilles had ushered them in, grumbling some, and led them straight to the dining room; there, they got their first real look at Connor up close. He looked tired, haggard, worn, and Myrium spotted the belt of beads around his waist; she couldn’t be sure though, having only seen the ritual take place once or twice, but she was certain it was for mourning.

“Thank you,” his voice was a bit scratchy but his companions chose to not comment on it, “All for coming on such short notice; please, sit.” Here, he waved them to the seats about the table; there was a small feast spread out before them, of some strange meals.

The whole spectacle looked lovingly prepared, the place settings delicately set and scrutinized to the final detail, and each one took their seat slowly, afraid to displace something of importance. They murmured greetings and quiet pleasantries as they moved, quelling their worry for the moment, but pittered to a stop when they noticed Connor still standing at his own place setting. As they had settled, he had procured a pipe, stuffed with tobacco, and held in his hands awkwardly.

“I am sure you have questions, and I apologize that I cannot give you more beyond that this is a sacred ritual in my tribe to acknowledge the…” his voice shook, and he breathed deeply. “The passing of a loved one.”

Myrium tried to swallow her emotions, but they stayed balled in her throat; her suspicions had been right and, for some reason, it did not seem appropriate for Connor to look so weary or have to go through such a heavy thing.

“I assure you,” he continued when they had settled again from this revelation. “That it was not someone you knew or someone you cared for, but I would be honored if you would share in this last rite with me.” He did not list the previous rites, the ten days of mourning and the speech at the edge of the wood (he had filled both the mourner’s and non-mourner’s duties in the speech, including having made the wampum belt at appropriate times within that moment), the incense and candles he had lit and cried around; those memories were for him to hold and carry.

“Of course, Connor,” Father Timothy spoke quietly.

Connor nodded, lit the pipe, and puffed before passing it to the next person; each in turn, took a puff and sent it along, until it was back in Connor’s hands and he snuffed the small embers with a small speech in his native tongue, ending with _“Ó:nen ki' wáhi, Raké:ni”_ ; everyone was kind enough to not mention the vacant place setting at Connor’s side, no doubt where the lost loved one should have sat. The meal was not awkward in the slightest, however, and it did wonders to ease Connor’s friends’ anxiety, so much so that they returned to their work the following day with great cheer.

Connor appeared that day, as well, for the first time in nearly two weeks, his head shaved and paint streaked across his cheeks. Myrium had sucked in a breath at that, her minimal knowledge springing up again; there was no mistaking what this new look meant.

Connor had a war to fight.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to do something about Connor mourning his father, but from an outsiders perspective; I felt like we were missing a huge chunk of emotional turmoil after Haytham's death. It felt incomplete
> 
> The most information I was able to find about mourning in the Mohawk community was that there will be a ten day mourning period, and sometime during this I believe is the Forepart Ceremony which the mourners speak, and then the Requickening Address that the non-mourners speak; during the Requickening Address, a wampum belt is created in accordance to certain parts of the address. This is done at the edge of the forest, and after the ten mourning days have passed, there is a feast held with the dead one's favorite dish and a place set for them, beginning with a tobacco invocation and a request that the dead does not interfere with the living families' lives. I personally burn candles and incense when I've lost someone dear to me, so I put that in there as a personal touch.
> 
> **Ó:nen ki' wáhi, Raké:ni:** Goodbye, father


End file.
